The woman stirred restlessly.
“Just as if how it looks would make any difference in how it tastes,” she scoffed—but she turned her eyes toward the basket. “Well, what is it?”
“Guess! What do you want?” Pollyanna had skipped back to the basket. Her face was alight. The sick woman frowned.
“Why, I don't WANT anything, as I know of,” she sighed. “After all, they all taste alike!”
Pollyanna chuckled.
“This won't. Guess! If you DID want something, what would it be?”
The woman hesitated. She did not realize it herself, but she had so long been accustomed to wanting what she did not have, that to state off-hand what she DID want seemed impossible—until she knew what she had. Obviously, however, she must say something. This extraordinary child was waiting.
“Well, of course, there's lamb broth—”
“I've got it!” crowed Pollyanna.
“But that's what I DIDN'T want,” sighed the sick woman, sure now of what her stomach craved. “It was chicken I wanted.”